


road signs along the nighttime highway

by lunabee34 (Lorraine)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Character Death, Drabble Collection, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-02
Updated: 2014-04-02
Packaged: 2018-01-17 23:34:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1406710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lorraine/pseuds/lunabee34
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set of six drabbles on the content of the characters' dreams.  The title is taken from the following portion of Astrid Alauda's <i>Dyspeptic Enlightenment</i>: "Dreams are road signs along the nighttime highway of sleep."</p>
            </blockquote>





	road signs along the nighttime highway

_Dean_

Dean’s dreams are simple, quiet. Just the open road unspooling before him in the darkness and a silver dollar moon reflected in the rearview. Sweet night air coming in through his open window—dew and honeysuckle and the faint cloy of exhaust underneath. Led Zeppelin dialed down low. Sammy asleep in the passenger seat, his head lolled back and his knees crammed up against the glove box, a half-smile on his face like he’s remembering something good for once. The Impala’s engine thrumming though him clear to the bone, her headlights cutting a clean swath into what lies before them. 

_John_

Every time he kills the demon, she comes back to him. Sometimes she emerges from its ashes, clean and white and so brilliant she leaves afterimages when John blinks. Other times, she’s just _there_ beside him as he holsters the Colt, like she never left. Like he never watched her burn. She doesn’t speak, just smiles sweetly. Then she kisses him, licking into his mouth and cupping his jaw so tenderly that all his secret places come unhinged. When John wakes, he can still feel the pressure of her arms around him, the slide of her palm across his cheek.

_Gordon_

Gordon hears bones snapping when he sleeps. His eyelids twitch to the syncopation of tendons popping, joints scraping, teeth grinding themselves down to the gum. He sees her face, always. Her beautiful dark face twisted up into something ugly, her sweet voice gone rough and feral when she offers him forever. He feels the heat of her blood on his hands, the sick mess of her insides ground into his fingernails, into his pores. He watches himself dismantle his sister’s body, strip her away piece by piece, and convinces himself he did it to make sure she wouldn’t rise again. 

_Ash_

Princess Leia in the gold bikini. Tawny Kitaen on the hood of a Jaguar, writhing around in that white nightie. Angelina Jolie in _Hackers_ , fingers flying across the keyboard. Wendy Baxter, second row, fifth seat, Cal 3. Blonde, brown eyed, kinda flat-chested. Wants Ash’s notes but nothing else. He chops the mullet and loses the Skynnard shirts, starts drinking chai and carting around books on string theory. Just hoping. Wendy’s not a bitch; she lets him down easy, even makes him laugh as she’s telling him no. His hair’s just snaking down his neck again when MIT kicks him out. 

_Cassie_

Sometimes Cassie dreams of moonlit graveyards. White shapes move among the headstones and stretch their long arms to grab at her hair, at the hem of her dress. Then she falls like a B-movie queen into a freshly dug grave. Pillowed in the satin of an open casket at its bottom, she screams into the weight of damp earth shoveling in over her. Cassie ruins her hands on the coffin lid, scrabbling in vain at what will not give. Always at the end, she tires of struggling, just breathes shallowly into the darkness. Cassie blames Dean Winchester for these dreams.

_Sam_

Sam dreams of killing himself. This time he won’t murder Wandell. He won’t pin Jo to the bar, won’t put his hands on her, won’t tell her the truth. He won’t break his brother’s heart. He can’t ask Dean to do this for him, not after Madison. He can stop being Sammy; he can. He can stop himself. The barrel of the gun fits awkwardly in his mouth; it tastes a little like a new penny on his tongue, and it feels blessedly like the end. Like forgiveness. When he pulls the trigger, Sam is afraid, guilty, but mostly relieved.


End file.
